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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24081025">Legible Arrangements</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall'>curtaincall</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ficlet Collection, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:14:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,713</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24081025</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets originally posted to Tumblr or written for Discord challenges.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>101</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>212</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Name That Author Round 3: After Dark, Name That Author Round Five: After Dark Redux, Name That Author Round Four, Name That Author Round One, Name That Author Round Two</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. bringing down the house</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Originally posted to Tumblr, rated G</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"So,” Crowley said, stretching his legs out and taking another sip of wine, “what’re you up to these days?”</p><p>“Nothing particular,” Aziraphale said. “Although I do have to pop over to Nice for a blessing next week, but that shouldn’t take long.”</p><p>“Next week, huh? Mind covering a minor temptation for me, then, while you’re in the area?”</p><p>“I suppose so,” said Aziraphale. “What precisely is it?”</p><p>“It’s in Monte Carlo, actually,” Crowley said, “just popping in to the casino for a smidge of troublemaking. Nothing complicated.”</p><p>“Ah—” said Aziraphale, and shifted uncomfortably. “I’m afraid I can’t go to Monte Carlo.”</p><p>Crowley snorted. “What, are you too virtuous for gambling now? Don’t go using that line on me. I’ve seen how you get over baccarat.”</p><p>“No, no, it’s not that,” Aziraphale said. “It’s just—I <em>can’t</em> go to <em>Monte Carlo</em>.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“I’ve been banned,” Aziraphale muttered.</p><p>“Sorry, <em>what</em>?”</p><p>“I’ve been banned. From Monte Carlo.”</p><p>“What did you<em> do</em>?”</p><p>“In my view,” said Aziraphale primly, “I wasn’t doing anything wrong at all. I simply took the time to implement a bit of <em>strategy </em>and <em>mathematics</em>. Anyone could do the same. It’s hardly <em>cheating</em>.”</p><p>Crowley took a second to parse this. “You got kicked out of a casino for <em>counting cards.”</em></p><p>“Not before I’d accumulated several thousand pounds doing it,” said Aziraphale, in a most un-angelic fashion.</p><p>Crowley had a sudden image of him, all buttoned up in waistcoat and bowtie, spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, sitting at a blackjack table, his soft hands laying down the cards, the complete sincerity in his voice as he’d say <em>oh, dear me, it looks like I’ve won again, fancy that</em>, the canny glint in his eye that anyone looking less carefully than Crowley would miss.</p><p>It was a remarkably compelling image, and Crowley let out a low, inadvertent whistle.</p><p>“So, I can’t help with your temptation, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said. </p><p>“Yeah, no, that’s all right,” Crowley said, “but, uh, have you been…banned anywhere else?”</p><p>Aziraphale went pink. “It is possible,” he said, carefully, “that I might find myself unwelcome at several establishments in Las Vegas, as well.”</p><p>“You’ve been on some sort of <em>casino-defrauding world tour</em>, and you didn’t tell me?” </p><p>“Don’t make fun,” Aziraphale said. “It’s only a hobby.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley said, “getting booted from gambling establishments, right up there with manuscript collection on the list of your notable hobbies.”</p><p>“This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you—”</p><p>“Look,” Crowley interrupted, “have you, ah—ever been to Atlantic City? In America?”</p><p>Aziraphale shook his head. </p><p>“Well,” Crowley said, “pretty sure New Jersey could do with a bit of divine intervention.”</p><p>A small smile crept onto Aziraphale’s face. “It’s a tempting thought,” he said. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. overdue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Prompt: "Six weeks after the world doesn't end, Aziraphale shows up at Crowley's door holding a book."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Rated T</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley had a Smart Doorbell. It had a camera and a microphone and facial recognition software and a higher score on the Turing test than most demons. (It also had enough security flaws to induce ulcers in four out of five IT professionals, but the various hackers who had attempted to access the footage had, unaccountably, found themselves instead watching a feed of the reptile enclosure at the London Zoo.) </p><p>The doorbell’s intelligence had, however, languished unexploited for much of its existence, because Crowley received very few visitors of any sort (Hastur and Ligur, who had sent the facial recognition software into an electronic tizzy, being a notable exception). So, when the bell rang, Crowley jumped into the air, twisted himself in a way that shouldn’t have been possible in his current form, and uttered a string of curses in several mostly-dead languages before thinking to check the camera to see who his visitor was.</p><p>Onscreen, Aziraphale was waving dubiously in completely the wrong direction.</p><p>“Angel,” Crowley said, gathering his wits. “Uh, be right there,” he said, into the voicebox, and sprinted across the flat to open the door.</p><p>“Hello,” Aziraphale said, tightly, and handed Crowley a book.</p><p>“Hey,” Crowley said, flummoxed, “uh, thanks, what’s—” He looked down at a very familiar first edition of Spenser’s <em> Amoretti and Epithalamion.  </em></p><p>“I think,” said Aziraphale, in a tone so brittle it belonged in a candy shop, “you left this behind. Last time you were over.” </p><p>“Uh. Yeah?”</p><p>“So I thought, <em> oh dear, he must be dreadfully worried it’s gone missing,” </em>Aziraphale said, voice reaching octaves generally unattainable by human-shaped vocal cords, “and I rushed along to bring it back, that’s all. Don’t bother thanking me,” he added, waspishly. “No trouble at all, really.”</p><p>“Um,” said Crowley, around the enormous lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, “you’re...bringing it back?”</p><p>“It’s yours, isn’t it?” </p><p>“Well,” Crowley said, probably unwisely, “I sort of thought, I don’t know, it could be yours. Now.”</p><p>Aziraphale made a sort of choked sound. “You mean—”</p><p>“It’s a present,” Crowley snarled, “all right, I mean, c’mon, you didn’t think I bought a volume of sixteenth-century love poems for <em> myself, </em>really?”</p><p>“I didn’t think it was for <em> yourself—” </em></p><p>“You thought it was for <em> someone else? </em> Angel, who the <em> hell </em>else am I going to be gifting old books to—”</p><p>“I don’t know, Crowley,” Aziraphale said snappishly, “but generally one <em> gives </em>a person a present, one doesn’t just leave it laying about and hope he gets the message—”</p><p>“Which you clearly <em> didn’t—” </em></p><p>“It’s an epic poem about <em> consummating a marriage, </em> Crowley, I wasn’t about to <em> assume—” </em></p><p>Crowley groaned. “I thought I was being so <em> clever </em> and <em> subtle—” </em></p><p>Aziraphale’s face, which had gone icy with irritation, melted into a sort of amused fondness. “Oh, <em> dear,” </em>he said, laughing a little. </p><p>“Anyway,” Crowley said, proffering the book awkwardly, “it’s for you, so, if you want it—”</p><p>“I do,” Aziraphale said softly, but he wasn’t looking at the book at all.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Which Brilliant and Underappreciated Demonic Scheme of Mine Are You?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Crowley makes a uquiz.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Rated T</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Notes: i'm making this quiz with voice-to-text while driving, so don't @me with typos, ok?</p><p>
  <a href="https://uquiz.com/quiz/vToX4n/which-brilliant-and-underappreciated-demonic-scheme-of-mine-are-you">(take the quiz)</a>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. obligatory lockdown fic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Originally posted to Tumblr.<br/>Rated G.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale wasn’t surprised when the phone rang. He was a <em>bit </em>surprised that it rang so <em>soon, </em>because, high though his estimation of Crowley was, the fellow <em>could </em>be more than a little thick at times.</p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>“Hey,” Crowley said, voice slightly breathless. “I was. Uh. Thinking. You know, you are a <em>really </em>good guilt-tripper.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Crowley said, “and, I do feel, I mean, <em>extremely </em>guilty about staying in. Not doing my demonic duty, or what have you. You’re completely right, I ought to be–getting out there. Standing close to people.”</p><p>“Oh, no,” Aziraphale said, carefully. “What a <em>terrible </em>thing.”</p><p>“Mmm,” said Crowley. “Yeah. Absolutely wicked of me.”</p><p>“Well,” said Aziraphale, “of course, much as I’ve been enjoying myself here, it would be simply <em>irresponsible </em>of me to just <em>let </em>you go about…breathing on innocent humans.”</p><p>“It would, wouldn’t it?”</p><p>“Have you, erm, have you decided on a location? For your…iniquity?”</p><p>“I mean,” Crowley said, “traffic’s barely there, these days, I could get to Soho quicker’n anything.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>dear,” </em>Aziraphale said, happily. “How very wily of you.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t do, would it,” Crowley asked, “for you to stand by, in the face of all that…wiling, hmm?”</p><p>“No,” agreed Aziraphale. “I suppose I’ll simply have to–ah–shield the populace, as it were.”</p><p>“Rrrright,” said Crowley. “Well. Be there in a bit.”</p><p>“All right,” said Aziraphale, “oh, and, if you<em> have </em>been napping, please do have a mint before you come, won’t you, I know how your breath gets when you wake up.”</p><p>Crowley made a choking sound. “All right,” he said.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. idle hands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Prompt: Fic must contain the sentence "I hated that wallpaper, anyway."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Rated T.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale looked despairingly at the papers in front of him. It rankled a bit, having to fill out miracle accountability forms in quadruplicate. (Probably, a voice in the back of his mind added, because he hadn’t actually <em> done </em>the miracles in question, and having to lie four times felt a great deal less justifiable than lying once. Aziraphale told the voice, which sounded suspiciously serpentine, to hush.)</p><p>He let his attention wander from the desk to the wall, and from there to one of the bookshelves, and from there to the doorway, which, he noticed with a start, was newly occupied by a familiar figure.</p><p>“How long have <em> you </em>been there?” he asked Crowley, who grinned in response and propelled himself off the threshold and towards Aziraphale.</p><p>“Long enough to see you’re indulging in a bit of Sloth,” Crowley said, resting his elbows on the desk in what might be classified as a Category Five Lounge. “What is it they say about idle hands?”</p><p>“Devil’s playthings,” Aziraphale muttered.</p><p>Crowley squawked like an apoplectic raven and lost his balance. “Aaaah,” he said, once he’d righted himself, “uh, I was thinking devil’s <em> workshop</em>, where did you hear <em> playthings—” </em></p><p>Aziraphale felt himself blush. “Oh dear,” he said, “perhaps that wasn’t it—”</p><p>“In any case,” said Crowley, hastily, “I just popped over to say I’ve got a job in Brussels and I know you’re headed that way anyway, so, I figured, two inimical birds with one morally neutral stone, hmm?”</p><p>“Oh very well,” Aziraphale said. “Even though, you know, it’s <em> your </em>turn.”</p><p>“Is not.”</p><p>“It is indeed, I did the one in Amsterdam for you last month—”</p><p>“That doesn’t count,” Crowley said, scornfully. “It was <em> Amsterdam. </em>Couldn’t have taken more than a teaspoon of power.”</p><p>“Regardless,” Aziraphale said repressively, “I’ll do them. You’re lucky I’ve been looking forward to Brussels. There’s a lovely new chocolate place I read about—”</p><p>“Never understood the chocolate bit, myself.”</p><p>“Oh, <em> don’t </em>go pretending you’re not fond of sugar, I left you alone with a bag of jelly babies once—”</p><p>Crowley shook his head. “I get <em> candy. </em> Very on board with candy. But people—you—go <em> wild </em>for chocolate, and I just—don’t get it.”</p><p>“Well,” Aziraphale said, and snapped his fingers. “Go on,” he said, gesturing to the assortment of chocolates that had just appeared on the desk. “I want to see what you think.”</p><p>Crowley raised a skeptical eyebrow but took a chocolate, popping it into his mouth. After dithering a bit, Aziraphale followed suit. He bit down, and let out an involuntary sigh of pleasure—</p><p>Crowley spat out the chocolate in projectile fashion, leaving a 70-percent-cocoa splat on the wall.</p><p><em> “Really,” </em>Aziraphale said, once he’d finished chewing. </p><p>Crowley, for some reason, had gone purple. “Ssssorry,” he said, looking at the ground, “but, I did tell you. I don’t get it.”</p><p>“Yes,” said Aziraphale, “but look what you’ve <em> done!”  </em></p><p>“Consider it a favor,” Crowley said, still apparently very intrigued by his own feet. “I hated that wallpaper, anyway.”  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. a new-examined life</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Written for the prompt: "This better not awaken anything in me."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>(Rated M. Also contains discussion of death.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There is a demon sleeping in Aziraphale’s lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crawly had stumbled into his rooms in Athens, half-drunk and eyes heavy with exhaustion, to tell him that Socrates had been found guilty and was to drink hemlock in the morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Impiety and corrupting the youth,” he spat, hand flexing against his side, “what’s that—what a </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be convicted for, I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not fair,” Aziraphale said, softly, “I agree, I wish it didn’t—I wish I could—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t,” Crawly said, and stopped pacing, for a moment, looked directly into Aziraphale’s eyes. “I can’t. I tried. Told him he could run away, if he wanted, that I’d help—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He said no?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He said no. I argued, but—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But arguing with Socrates tends to be a futile endeavor,” Aziraphale finished. “I know. It was—good of you to offer,” he said, and regretted it at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crawly scowled. “Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he said, but there wasn’t any sting. “Breakin’ the law. Very bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Aziraphale said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just—” Crawly slumped down, against the wall. “I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s protective instinct (an angelic instinct, surely, to help, to soothe) took over, and he crossed the room to Crawly, placing an arm around his shoulders, a hand against his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crawly had fallen into him, further than Aziraphale had expected, and muttered something about asking questions, and drifted, with remarkable speed, into a fitful sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale sits there, the weight of Crawly’s head against his legs, heavy, yes, but less burdensome than he might have expected. He looks down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has never seen Crawly sleep before, hasn’t really thought about the fact that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>might. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s odd, to see eyes that are normally wide-open and alert, closed, shuttered by lids. His gaze runs down Crawly’s face, to his neck, and when he sees no tell-tale bobbing in his throat he realizes that Crawly has stopped breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is, Aziraphale thinks, incredibly vulnerable, and incredibly beautiful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could, he realizes, do any manner of things, while Crawly sleeps. Could bless him, curse him, discorporate him, kill him, even, beyond revival. He ought to, maybe. But the head in his lap, just now, doesn’t belong to the Serpent, or the Tempter, or the Enemy. It belongs to Crawly, Crawly who laughed with him in the Garden, Crawly who tried to save Socrates, and Aziraphale cannot bring himself to want to harm him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(He will, later—much later, in a king-size bed at the other end of Europe, after he has had Crowley in his hands and in his mouth and between his thighs, after he has lost and gained everything, watch Crowley sleeping, again, and remember this. He will laugh, a bit, at the thought, and Crowley will stir, and Aziraphale will press a kiss beneath his ear and murmur </span>
  <em>
    <span>go back to sleep, darling, I was only thinking.</span>
  </em>
  <span>)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, he rests a tentative hand on Crawly’s head, in comfort, in consolation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crawly must feel it, because his head moves, and his eyes open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is awake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale is, too.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. contented autumn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Written in response to a challenge to include the following words: "nice, religion, savage, love, black, autumn, dog, newspaper, pre-, distance."<br/>Rated G.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s autumn, and the leaves are falling red and gold against the grass, scorched and dry from a too-long summer. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now is the winter of our discontent—</span>
  </em>
  <span>this is the autumn of their contentment, rather, and Aziraphale curls up in the wicker chair on the porch, blanket wrapped around him, a mug of tea at his side and a newspaper in his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t you cold?” Crowley asks, from inside the cottage, and Aziraphale turns around to smile at him through the window. He’s wearing a black woolen sweater and a sour expression, scowling at the setting sun as though it’s personally insulted him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s quite nice out here, actually,” he calls back, and Crowley picks up on the implicit invitation and slouches out to join him, back hunched, hands in his pockets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he says, “‘s too cold,” and shivers in what Aziraphale deems unnecessarily dramatic fashion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, come here, then,” Aziraphale says, and scooches over on the chair to make room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley cocks his head, looks at him for a second, then nods, crosses the distance between them in a few long strides, and settles down next to him in the chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blanket?” Aziraphale offers, and Crowley accepts, wraps it around himself and snuggles into Aziraphale so that they’re both under the blanket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s better,” Crowley admits, “you’re warm, at least,” and he rests his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and closes his eyes, and neither of them says anything for a few minutes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale turns the page of his paper, as quietly as possible, so the rustling won’t bother Crowley, and starts in on the crossword. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“D’you need any help?” Crowley murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale does not need help, has never needed help with a crossword since he started doing them in the eighteenth century. “Yes,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley makes a soft pleased sound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale scans the clues for something suitable, lands on: “World capital that sounds like a blood grouping?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s silent for a moment, thinking, and Aziraphale’s worried he’s picked something too difficult, but then— “Taipei.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Taipei?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Type-A.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” says Aziraphale, with faint disapproval, “a </span>
  <em>
    <span>pun,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>and fills in the squares. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Knew that one yourself, didn’t you?” Crowley asks, lifting his head off Aziraphale’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Aziraphale admits, “perhaps I could have figured it out on my own, yes. But you wanted to help—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll always want to help, where you’re concerned, angel,” Crowley says, “it’s like a religion, with me. Closest thing I’ve got to one, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale lets the newspaper flutter to the ground. He prefers the cryptic crosswords, anyway. With his hands now free, he reaches out to wrap an arm around Crowley’s shoulders, pulling him in tighter. “Still cold, are you?” he asks, teasing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” Crowley says, tucking his head under Aziraphale’s chin, “not anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit silently like that for a few more minutes, until the sound of leaves being trampled underfoot prompts Aziraphale to lift his head and look over for its source. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a small dog in their garden, a yellow one, hardly more than a puppy, really, and it’s got hold of something in its mouth, something which it seems is about to be very much less intact than it is now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The </span>
  <em>
    <span>dianthus,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Crowley says, horrified, and vaults up out of the chair, dashing after the dog. “Give it </span>
  <em>
    <span>here,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he snaps, and the dog, delighted by what it presumably thinks is a game, darts away from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale rearranges the blanket around himself, and watches, and chuckles softly. It’s something, he realizes, that the sound of an unknown footstep didn’t frighten them. It wasn’t so long ago that they’d been worried, happy, yes, but fearful lest that happiness be snatched away by Heaven or Hell or both. But a few months on, and no trouble, and they’ve stopped looking behind them every few paces, been able to focus on looking ahead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley returns to the porch a few minutes later, a bedraggled dianthus in hand. “Savage beast,” he says, glaring at the dog, which flops onto its back and begins wriggling around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come,” Aziraphale says, standing up, letting the blanket fall back on the chair, “let’s go inside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All right,” says Crowley, and holds the door open for him as they go back into the cottage. “Fancy a fire?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds </span>
  <em>
    <span>lovely,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Aziraphale says, and Crowley nods, and even though he can light fires with a snap of his fingers he heads out to the woodshed anyway, for kindling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here, have this,” Aziraphale says, when he comes back, handing him the rejected newspaper from before, “puzzle wasn’t much good anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” says Crowley, and lights a match, and soon enough there’s a crackling blaze going in the fireplace, and Aziraphale’s settled into the couch with a copy of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Little Dorrit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Crowley’s laying sprawled next to him, head on Aziraphale’s thigh, sleeping or perhaps just thinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale looks up from Dickens, and down at Crowley, and bends down to press a kiss on his forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Warm enough for you in here?” he asks, and Crowley smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Plenty,” he says, and Aziraphale runs a fond hand over his face before returning to his book.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> warm in the cottage. The fire’s burning brightly, no signs of going out anytime soon (Crowley might have </span>
  <em>
    <span>started </span>
  </em>
  <span>it with a match, but he’s not averse to keeping it ablaze via miracle), but that’s not the only warmth, Aziraphale realizes, as he runs his fingers idly through Crowley’s hair. The real warmth radiates not from the hearth but from the couch, where they’re nestled together, from everything they’ve done for each other and everything they will do. It will always be warm when they’re together, he thinks, because there will always be love.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. verity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Written for the prompt: "This brings back memories."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Rated T.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> London, 1780 </em>
</p><p>“You really did it, then?” Aziraphale muttered, after a quick glance around the park for any eavesdroppers. He found none—it was chilly, for May, and cloudy, and the only people out and about were a few nurses briskly pushing perambulators. </p><p>“Said I would, didn’t I?” Crowley pushed his glasses up his nose with a long finger.</p><p>“I’m not <em> doubting </em>you,” Aziraphale said, “I’m just—”</p><p>“Questioning whether I keep my promises.”</p><p>“You can scarcely blame me. You <em> are </em>a demon.”</p><p>“And, what, all demons are liars?”</p><p>“I didn’t say that.”</p><p>“You <em> implied </em>it.” Crowley crossed his arms over his chest. “Very well, then, if you want to be a, a demon-generalizer, have at it. We’re all liars. I’m probably lying right now. This is a lie.”</p><p>Aziraphale winced. “Don’t.”</p><p>“Don’t what?”</p><p>“Paradoxes make me itchy.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“When you say ‘this is a lie,’ you’ve created a paradox, because it can’t—it doesn’t work out as either true or false.”</p><p>Crowley frowned. “All right, I mean, that <em> bothers </em>you?”</p><p>“Yes,” Aziraphale said stiffly.</p><p>Crowley grinned, his earlier dudgeon seemingly dissolving. “Don’t like it, do you, when things aren’t true or false? Black and white? Good and evil? When they can’t fit in your nice little boxes?”</p><p>Aziraphale pointedly looked away from Crowley and up at the sky. The darkening clouds, he noted, were clustering closer together.</p><p>“Hey,” Crowley said, gleefully, “how about this one: can God create a boulder too heavy for Her to lift?”</p><p>“I’m not engaging with you,” Aziraphale said, attempting to affect a rather stone-like demeanor himself. “Not on questions of <em> theology.” </em></p><p>“Not theology, then,” Crowley said, the animation in his face showing even through his spectacles. “Um. Let’s say a man is in prison, and the warden says he’s to be hung that week, but the day of the hanging is a surprise—”</p><p>There was a crack of thunder, and it began to rain.</p><p>Aziraphale, who had been reading Lavoisier and was starting to understand meteorological theory, unfurled the umbrella he’d brought along and stepped away slightly.</p><p>“So then he thinks,” Crowley was still saying, “that it can’t be Thursday either—” He broke off, and lifted a hand to his head. “Eurgh. Rain.”</p><p>“Your observational skills, as ever, astound me.”</p><p>“You planned ahead, I see,” Crowley said, gesturing to the umbrella.</p><p>“<em>You </em> didn’t.”</p><p>Crowley made a face. “Ruins the look, carrying that about with you, don’t you find?”</p><p>“Ruins it a great deal less than getting damp and bedraggled,” Aziraphale said.</p><p>“It’s pretty big,” Crowley said. “Your umbrella.”</p><p>“You may join me,” Aziraphale said, “if you promise to stop talking about paradoxes.”</p><p>“Sure, yeah, all right.”</p><p>Aziraphale extended the umbrella out a bit, and Crowley shuffled inward. “This brings back memories,” he said. “You and the rain.”</p><p>“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said, trying not to notice the place where their arms brushed, the proximity of Crowley’s thigh to his own. “One of us had better be responsible.”</p><p>Crowley grinned, his face altogether too near. “Glad it’s you, angel.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. fourth alternative rendezvous</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Prompt: "There is a door that should never be open. It's open."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Rated M.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="text">
  <p>Purgatory was not Aziraphale’s favourite place. He rather doubted whether it was anyone’s favourite place, being something like the Ringo Starr of the afterlife. The general look was all rather <em>fiery </em>for his taste, and the Purgatorial staff had an attitude. “<em>We’re</em> the ones who burn the sin out of ‘em,” Aziraphale had overheard a Tory (short for Purgatory, no relation to the political party) saying once. “That lot don’t have to bother with anything less than purity.”</p>
  <p>For all its prevailing unpleasantness, however, Purgatory did have one significant advantage: the supply closet in the back hall.</p>
  <p>Unlike the Heavenly supply closets, which were full of pristine and orderly shelves, or the Hellish ones, which held stained torture implements and mold that couldn’t be definitively proven <em>not </em>to have developed sentience, the Purgatory closet was mostly empty space, with a few fire extinguishers sitting in the corner. It also had a “Highly Toxic Materials Within - Do Not Open” sign on the door, which had been placed there by Aziraphale in a fit of paranoia one evening.</p>
  <p>Because, of course, the Purgatory supply closet’s emptiness and low level of foot traffic made it an ideal spot <strike></strike>for any rendezvous that one might not wish to advertise to the general population. </p>
  <p>Which was why Aziraphale, who was, presently, standing with his back flush against the wall while a demon trailed kisses down his exposed neck, <em>adored </em>the Purgatory supply closet.</p>
  <p>“You know,” Crowley said, sliding one hand into the gap between Aziraphale’s shirt and his trousers, while the other made inroads on his belt buckle, “there are other options. Location-wise, I mean.”</p>
  <p>“Such as?”</p>
  <p>“Um.” Crowley pulled his head back to stare dubiously at Aziraphale. “Home?”</p>
  <p>“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, “but I never know whether they’re watching. You know I’ve had suspicions about that paperweight Gabriel gave me last Christmas—”</p>
  <p>“The one that looks like a lamb that got hooked on heroin?”</p>
  <p>“Yes, it’s dreadfully ugly and also I think it might be listening to my conversations. Whereas, here—”</p>
  <p>“Tories don’t care enough to bug the place, and neither of our lots would think to. Got it.”</p>
  <p>“Exactly,” said Aziraphale, and, considering the time for conversation over, checked the floor below him for dust before dropping to his knees. “Now, then, you’d better do your own jeans, because after last time—”</p>
  <p>The door opened.</p>
  <p>Aziraphale hurtled to his feet. “I <em>beg </em>your pardon, there is a <em>sign</em>—”</p>
  <p>His brain, at this juncture, abandoned its lexical abilities in favour of a shrill scream at the sight of Gabriel and Beelzebub, whose hands were hanging rather suspiciously close together.</p>
  <p>“Sorry,” Gabriel said, quickly, “uh, I think maybe we—”</p>
  <p>Beelzebub’s gaze flicked between Aziraphale and Crowley. “Toxic materials?”</p>
  <p>“Yeah,” Crowley said, “we were. Uh. Cleaning up a spill?”</p>
  <p>One corner of Beelzebub’s mouth twitched in a smile. “Sure,” they said. “And we were looking for supplies.”</p>
  <p>They did something with their eyes that might have been a wink, and closed the door with a slam.</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. regretsy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Written in response to the challenge to write a fic in 70 words. Rated M.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They stared at the open package.</p><p>“Um,” said Crowley, “not to sound ungrateful, but—<em>what </em>is this?”</p><p>Aziraphale was scarlet. “There seems to have been a…misunderstanding, of sorts. On the Itsy-bitsy page—”</p><p>“<em>Etsy </em>page—”</p><p>“It said <em>sweater for your snake</em>, and I thought—”</p><p>“<em>Trouser </em>snake.” Crowley brandished the packing slip.</p><p>“You wear trousers!” </p><p>“Yeah, it’s not that.”</p><p>“Then—<em>oh</em>.” Aziraphale paused, and then— “I don’t suppose you’d like to try it?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is anti_kate's fault for bringing <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/478245551/snake-willy-warmer-cock-sock-peter">this</a> into my life when I was looking at stuff like <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/757351496/snake-sweater-crocheted-snake-sweater">this.</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. improv</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Originally posted to Tumblr. Rated M.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Oh dear me,” Aziraphale said, straightening the lace cuff of his negligee. “Here I am, all alone in the woods, defenceless and vulnerable. I certainly <em>do </em>hope no <em>wily demons </em>come along to tempt me into surrendering my virtue. That would be simply <em>dreadful.”<br/>
</em></p><p>He glanced theatrically over at a nearby bush. “I would really be <em>entirely at the mercy </em>of anyone who might happen to come by,” he added, raising his voice a bit so as to be heard by the bush. “<em>Such </em>horrors as a foul fiend could visit upon me–”</p><p>A horrible sort of squelching sound came from the ground in front of him.</p><p>Aziraphale took a step back in genuine surprise. “Crowley? What are you–”</p><p>“Hey there, foulfeathers,” said Hastur, smiling with what simultaneously seemed to be far too many and far too few teeth. </p><p>Aziraphale made a noise generally only prompted by expired dairy products and bowdlerized editions of classic texts. </p><p>“D’you like maggots?” Hastur asked, as small, many-legged creatures began crawling out of his various orifices. “Cause it seems they like y–”</p><p>“Oh, <em>bother,” </em>said Aziraphale petulantly, and lifted his arm up towards the sky, drawing down a massive bolt of Heavenly power that struck Hastur directly between his maggot-spewing nostrils.</p><p>Aziraphale wrinkled his nose and wafted the air away from him. “Eurgh,” he said. “Brimstone.”</p><p>“Angel?” Crowley’s voice was high and jag-edged with panic, and as he came hurtling out of the woods into the clearing, Aziraphale could see that his eyes had gone almost entirely yellow. “What’s happening, I went back to go run over my lines again, did I miss my–”</p><p>He broke off at the sight of Aziraphale. “What <em>happened?”<br/>
</em></p><p>Aziraphale pulled his lips tightly together. “I’m afraid the wrong demon showed up,” he said.</p><p>Crowley was beside him in a few quick strides, dragging a thumb across his forehead and sniffing at the ash that came away. “Smote him, did you?”</p><p>“Of course,” Aziraphale said, with as much dignity as possible for someone wearing only lace and soot.</p><p>Crowley took a step back and looked him up and down. “You know,” he said, darting his tongue out along the edges of his teeth, “this is really–’s not a bad look on you.”</p><p>“Really? <em>This?”<br/>
</em></p><p>“Yeah,” Crowley said, pinching a darkened curl between his thumb and forefinger. “Course, just say the word, I’ll go back behind the bush and we can start over, but…”</p><p>Aziraphale sighed. “I expect you never learned your lines properly anyway.”</p><p>Crowley snaked an arm around his waist to drag him in closer. “Absolutely did not,” he said, “but I’ve got the business down cold.”</p>
  </div></div>
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